


Greenhouse Effect

by allthebros



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domesticity, Fuckbuddies, Heatwave, M/M, Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros/pseuds/allthebros
Summary: Patrick hasn’t fucked anyone else in weeks.





	Greenhouse Effect

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this (slightly nsfw) picture of a Jonny-lookalike](http://allthebros.tumblr.com/post/175830700273/1988-fic-greenhouse-effect-mature-19k)
> 
> Written for the 'heatwave' square on the summer trope bingo  
> Thanks to sorrylatenew, as always, for everything <333

 

 

He could blame it on the heatwave. On his fitful sleep. On waking up constantly overheated, attached with sweat wherever his body touched Jonny’s—a human furnace even in this weather. He could blame laziness and drowsiness for not moving away after the third time, for not shuffling quietly to the living room to sleep on the sofa, an old, slightly ratty loveseat he’d have to curl into, but comfortable enough. Certainly cooler than sharing the bed. He could blame it on the thick, sluggish flow of his thoughts. On how hard it is to think, and breathe, and move in this heat. 

He’d certainly like to blame Jonny. _Definitely_ blames him for when they woke at the same time pressed together, too hot to have sex but feverish for it anyway, compromising by moving as little as possible to get off—3:46AM on the clock. Just a spread of his legs for Jonny’s hand. For the push of his fingers inside, touch heavy and a little clumsy with sleep. A slow and unhurried affair, one leg falling off the bed, the other bent under Jonny’s arm where it rubbed warm there in sweat. He came quick, body unwilling to make it last longer, ratcheting high and fast with the deep press of Jonny’s fingers curling into his prostate, thumb a hard point of pressure on his taint. Came with a warm gasp and the sheets damp at his back. He blames Jonny for the sweetness of his mouth, the wetness of it on his nipple and the good suck he gave it while he came, too, spurts of his come barely noticed over Patrick’s hot skin.

He could blame it on that memory. That sticky-muggy pocket of heat in the dark—too much really, everything thick and unbreathable—that Patrick didn’t want to leave. 

In fact, further back, to yesterday’s late afternoon booty call. Jonny a tired and soft voice over the phone, easy to imagine sprawled naked on his sofa in that effortless way he has, sheen of sweat over him, when he said, “You busy? Wanna come over?” wanting to fuck even in the oven his apartment had become. 

Patrick could blame all of that, all of it, for this moment: the bloom of warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the weather or with his dick. A slow, bone-cracking stretch behind his ribs—like waking up for a second time to see the same room you were in the first time around, but now the light has shifted. 

It’s what Patrick thinks and feels as he eats cereal in only his boxers, perched on a chair—one of two Jonny has along with a small table stuck in a corner of his cramped living room—squinting into the bright morning light.

Jonny is watering his plants. 

Not the most fascinating of activities in any normal circumstances.

Except.

Except, Jonny is a 6 feet 2 inches tall piece of man, with muscular arms, abs like rock, thick thighs and an even thicker ass, and he waters his plants with only a tank top on and, inexplicably, high socks. (Patrick likes the high socks). 

Except, Jonny has a sweet, sleepy face in the morning, dark, dark eyes, and a lazy crooked smile only slightly better than the dumb laugh that usually follows it. 

Except, Patrick’s been fucking him for months, casual-like, no-strings. Long enough by now to know exactly what that body looks like how it feels, what it can do—his cock too, soft for now between his thighs, though Pat can’t see it, only the great curve of Jonny’s ass under the fabric of his shirt, barely covering it.

Faced with this, plant watering is far more interesting to watch than it has any right to be.

The sun comes harsh through the tall windows—too bright already. They should keep the curtains closed, try to keep the room as cool as they can (almost impossible right now and even more difficult when on the fourth floor), but Jonny’s plants need light. They are everywhere, on shelves along the walls and on the floor by the furniture, set atop books, on the table beside Patrick (moved away when they eat). Jonny is careful about them, picks at the dead leaves, pokes at the soil. He has a watering schedule taped to the fridge. 

The air is thick, water-soaked. The only sounds are the clinking of Patrick’s spoon in his bowl, the water pouring over the plants, and the whirring of the two fans they carry with them from room to room. 

Jonny wipes his arm over his forehead, the muscles in his shoulder move. The hair at the back of his neck is wet, and Patrick watches a drop of sweat roll down the length of it, into the collar of his shirt where it already sticks a little to the middle of his back. Patrick stops chewing. He looks down at his bowl, back to Jonny.

“You hate Froot Loops,” he says around his mouthful.

Jonny turns around, not quick enough in raising his hand so water spills on the floor. He frowns at the splash on the old wood and wipes it with his socked foot. “What?”

A lift of the bowl. “Froot Loops. You hate them.”

“Oh. You do, though. Like them, I mean.” He shrugs and turns back to what he was doing. 

Patrick finishes chewing, swallows. The bowl makes a loud thump when he puts it on the table. He leans against the wall, wind from the fan straight to the side of his face this way. He’s not overheated yet—still cooled down from the cold shower he took when he got up to rinse the night away, but he feels the heaviness of the air on his skin. Jonny’s not like him. Already, the small spot of sweat on his back is bigger than it was a minute ago. It causes his shirt to cling more, hitches it up so that now he can see the deep crease of his ass where it meets his thighs.

Patrick closes his eyes. Turns his head into the fan and lets the flow of warm air hit him. He opens his mouth. “Aaaaaah,” he says into the grill, robotic sounding.

Fuckbuddies, he thinks. 

Except.

Patrick hasn’t fucked anyone else in weeks.

He vaguely hears Jonny in the kitchen—the bang of the cupboard, the tap running, the fridge opening, then closing. He opens his eyes when Jonny settles into the second chair, wind from the fan gone from him when Jonny turns it so it hits him instead. He’s pink all over the face and down his throat, beads of sweat at his temples.

“You’re a lot to look at, Toews,” Patrick says, snaps a smile at him to sharpen the words. “What’s with the socks?”

“You like the socks.”

Patrick likes Froot Loops too.

Jonny drags the fan closer, turns his head to the side and tilts it so the wind hits the back of his neck. “I guess you’re not bad to look at either, Kane,” he says after a while, peering sideways at Patrick with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Patrick sprawls himself in the chair, opens up his arms, his legs. Tilts his chin up with a smug little _damn, straight_ look, and then says it for good measure, “Damn, straight,” and laughs when Jonny laughs. He sweeps his hand over his pecs and down to his abs, catching the way Jonny’s eyes follow the gesture. 

He could blame it on this, too. How easy it is to be with Jonny. How easy it is to want him.

Jonny slides a little brown pot across the table towards Patrick. “Your sunburn is starting to flake.”

Inside, there’s some aloe Jonny collects from his plants. Patrick dips a fingertip in and spreads some across his nose and cheekbones. The skin is tight and warm, the gel cool, fresh. “Thanks,” he says with a small satisfied sigh. 

They’re buddies. The’ve hit it off pretty early on, but they generally don’t stick around and hang out at each other’s places for too long after fucking. So unless more sex is in order, Patrick should think of going.

“It’s gonna be another fucking hot one,” he says, instead. “We should go to the movies. Bask in that sweet, sweet A/C.”

Jonny hums a moan at the thought, leans his head on his hand, elbow by the fan, and turns his face into it with his eyes closed, repeats the sound into the grill the same way Patrick had done. 

He should look ridiculous like this, shirt sticking a little to his chest, and no pants, dick and balls resting on the seat of the chair, socks still hiked high. He doesn’t. Patrick wasn’t lying about it being a lot. Jonny’s skin is soft and soft-looking, there’s a shiny sheen of sweat over his collarbone.

“Let’s,” Jonny says, long enough after that Patrick has to walk back in his head to what he’d said last. The room is already warmer, his thoughts slower.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll probably die if we don’t.”

“So fucking dramatic,” Patrick says with an exaggerated eyeroll, turning his head into Jonny’s hand without thinking when he reaches out, swipes his thumb over Patrick’s cheekbone. His skin smells of earth and green things.

“Missed a spot,” Jonny says. His voice is low and lazy, eyes sleepy but keen on Patrick. His hand hovers over Patrick’s mouth, then chin, goes down to his chest where he spreads the extra gel over his nipple. It’s still cool. The contrast makes Patrick shiver, a small spark of heat between his legs. In no time at all it’s hard under Jonny’s thumb.

“This first,” Patrick says, his words low and humid between his lips.

“You’re gonna have to come over here, bud. I think my balls are stuck to this chair.” Jonny gives a puffy little laugh, self-deprecating and sweet with a shameless spread of his thighs.

It expands even farther inside Patrick, that warmth that has nothing to do with the heatwave or how thick his dick is—past his lungs and into his throat, down in his core. He’s filled with it. So fucking full he might spill. 

And he could blame it on the touch of Jonny’s hand to his hair as he goes to his knees between his legs. On the way his fingertips skim Patrick’s eyebrows and the shell of his ear. He could blame the weight of his pretty dick inside his mouth. Or how Jonny thinks of tilting the fan down, holding it with one hand so it doesn’t fall, and the wind hits Patrick just right while he sucks on his cock. He could blame Jonny’s thighs. His pert nipples. His dumb laugh. The fucking sexy way he hitches his shirt up to his collarbones. He could blame how horny he is. How hard he gets for it, for this man. How good a fuck he is. How easy it was to cancel his plans yesterday when he got Jonny’s call—to come and fuck him in the middle of a heatwave. Easy as that. He could blame it on a lot of things.

Except.

 

 


End file.
